Farengar winced, abruptly awoken by a loud crash followed by the sounds of hammering and sawing. Sunlight pressed against the back of his eyelids, filtering through the hole in the inn's roof directly above him. Sighing, he reached up a hand from under the covers to rub his face and hide his eyes. For once, he had slept beneath a blanket. Not even his Nord blood could withstand the icy cold from the broken window without a small comfort.
Quietly, he listened for any sound of breathing or rustle of movement, anticipation welling anxiously in the pit of his stomach. Hearing nothing, he opened his eyes.
The room was empty. He was alone.
Frowning to himself, he stared at the vacant side of the bed.
He wasn't dismayed, he mused, so much as confused.
All night his sleep had been fitful, expecting at any moment to roll over and find Therion sleeping beside him; having silently snuck in during the night at some point. The Dragonborn had been adamant that he couldn't sleep without him.
Glancing over at the door he was reminded of Therion's cautious habit to trap each entrance wherever he slept.
Sitting up, he dressed quickly.
Perhaps, he thought to himself as he hurried down the stairs, the Dragonborn had spent the evening catching up with Ondolemar
His suspicious, ex-Thalmor cousin.
Responsible for his torture.
Whom had been curiously absent during last night's events.
Farengar's frown turned into a scowl as he quickened his pace, weaving through the construction in the market.
Therion was probably fine. The elf would laugh if he saw him so concerned - he might even be tailing him, somewhere on the rooftops, chuckling at his distress.
Therion was nothing if not cautious, after all. Even more so, since his abduction from Whiterun. He slept on rooftops to avoid detection spells, placed trip wires, and was a walking arsenal of hidden weaponry. His guard was permanently up.
Except, perhaps, Farengar thought grimly, in the presence of someone he trusted.
Hammering a fist on the door of Proudspire Manor, he looked forward to being proven right in his suspicion that he was acting foolishly. Irate, he knocked harder when there was no answer.
After some time, the door wrenched open a crack while he was still pounding on it. A single blood shot eye looked him over before opening the door wider.
Ondolemar towered over him, clothing disheveled and eyes deep with shadows. The thin elf glowered down at him, a fierce, pitiless glint in his eyes. He didn't ask what Farengar wanted, merely continued to glare down at him in the secluded alcove.
"I'm here to see Therion," Farengar explained, returning his stare.
Ondolemar gave him a look that said he very much wanted to slam the door in his face.
"He's sleeping," the elf replied in a slow, thick voice. "And I was close to doing the same. I don't care if the city's on fire. Again. Come back later."
Farengar almost felt relieved.
But not enough to stop him from planting his foot and blocking Ondolemar's attempt to close the door.
The tall elf narrowed his eyes and Farengar met his gaze, unflinching.
"I don't recall asking your permission," the wizard said. "My business is not with you."
Ondolemar stared intently for a minute. Finally, Farengar heard the sound of a blade being sheathed as Ondolemar disappeared, pulling the door open for him to enter.
He kept his eyes fixed on the former Justicar as he walked inside.
Making his way upstairs, he was acutely aware of Ondolemar following behind him, though the man walked silently. It was exactly as Therion did, and just as unnerving.
Within Therion's room, he saw the bed occupied, a crown of gold hair visible at the top of the blanket.
Ondolemar made a quiet sound of disapproval when Farengar went inside, standing over the bedside. Craning his head down, a slow frown spread across his face. In one quick motion, he snatched back the blanket.
"Good morning to you," Quaranir grunted in surprise, sounding indignant. "Oh dear," he added, looking from from Farengar to Ondolemar. "More trouble already?"
Farengar ignored his question, throwing down the blanket in his hand and marching swiftly over to Therion's desk. Without a word, he flicked of his wrists, alighting both his hands with magicka. Placing either palm on Therion's painting, he let out a slow breath and let his eyes slide shut, finding a quiet place in his mind. A small silver light shimmered, stretching out from the painting; a tether. It stretched out, leading into a dense fog. He recalled the last time he had used magic to locate Therion, as he let his mind wander away, following the silver cord, trying to gauge his distance.
Glass shattered above his corporeal body, the sound loud enough to draw his mind back. Confused, he tried to open his eyes, but before he knew what was happening, he found himself staring up at the ceiling from the floor.
Blinking slowly, he tried to gather his wits.
"Oh my," he heard Quaranir say. "Are you alright?"
He nodded, then made a face as his head throbbed. A gentle hand at his back, helped him to sit up.
"A location spell, I take it? The same happened to me when I tried to locate where the Thalmor are hiding. That would be the Ascendant's magic - it packs quite a punch," he added, looking at the shattered mirror beside where Farengar had stood. "What or who were you- Oh, no. The Dragonborn...?" he asked. When neither answered him, the monk rose to his feet.
"I must alert the Order. I'll return soon," he said quickly, vanishing and leaving behind orbs of light in his wake.
Farengar wrenched himself off of the floor and stood with some effort.
He looked to Ondolemar. His face was its usual neutral mask. Farengar found it irksome that the elf wasn't visibly upset. If indeed he was upset at all.
"I should inform the Jar- the High King," Farengar said, trying to think clearly, rage building up inside of him.
Ondolemar looked around the room.
"Well. While you do that, I might finally get some sleep, seeing as the bed is free now," he said, glancing down at Farengar. "I trust you can show yourself out?"
Farengar stared at him in open surprise.
"Yes," he said slowly. With a curious parting glance, he left Proudspire Manor.
Ondolemar didn't bother waiting to hear the door downstairs shut before wrenching open a window and leaping through it. He pulled his black hood low and sprang down the wall and into an alley. The Blue Palace was covered with scaffolding, making his task easier. Casting an invisibility spell, he crept up toward the living quarters.
Melaran sighed, surveying his room. Some of his books could be recovered, but others had simply been reduced to ash. Shutting the door behind him, he felt a breeze from through the window, scattering the papers of his desk. He sprang across the room to latch it. Just as he was wondering how it had opened in the first place, he saw a black reflection in the glass.
The court wizard whirled around, heart hammering in his ears, back pressed against the wall.
The mer before him pulled back his dark hood and placed a finger to his lips.
"Don't scream," Ondolemar said quietly.
"You're alive?!" Melaran exclaimed, looking him up and down. "How?"
"I faked my death," Ondolemar explained, picking up his papers and placing them in order. "Illusion magic, to hide my pulse. I'd never actually imbibe poison," he added, neatly setting down the wizard's research.
"The Dragonborn," Melaran replied with a frown, thinking back. "He wanted you dead…"
Ondolemar scoffed.
"Therion?" he asked with a chuckle. "He's too soft to kill me. We're kin. I fed the fool Nords some interesting lies. Come morning, I was going to lead Therion into a trap. To 'find the Thalmor'. I haven't the slightest clue where the my unit is," he shrugged. "Not since I was ambushed by the Imperials and dragged here in chains," he added, a glint of something murderous in his eyes.
Melaran was grateful he wasn't at that moment General Tullius.
"Bringing the Dragonborn back with me was going to go a long way toward making up for the embarrassment of my capture. However, you've gotten in the way of that," Ondolemar said, giving him an appraising stare.
Melaran swallowed, debating whether to shout for the guards.
"I'm sorry, to tell you - and every other Nord in the city - but I'm not Thalmor. Just Altmer."
Ondolemar seemed to ignore him.
"As… displeased as I am to find you've abducted my fool cousin, I am quite elated that you can point me toward my unit. I've had enough of this city- of this country. I've been dragged in chains for a week, and I haven't slept in days, so-"
"I understand, but I'm not Thalmor!" Melaran interrupted, cutting him off with an irritated sigh.
Ondolemar frowned at him impatiently.
"Come now. I'm head Justicar. I know which cities have sleepers, even if I'm not privy to their identities. Not that it's very hard to guess, now is it?" he said, drumming his fingers on Melaran's desk.
"Ask Viarmo at the Bard's College or Taarie or any of the other Altmer living here then! I'm not Thalmor!" he yelled angrily, pointing a finger at him. "I do not suffer fools gladly. Your ilk nearly turned me to charcoal last night, so I'd hardly be loyal even if I were-"
He was so focused on Ondolemar's even, drumming fingers on his desk, that he didn't notice his other hand move until he was pressed against the wall by his throat.
"I tire of this," he said simply. "Your family name is Graybinder. You've lived in Solitude for five years. Before that, no one knows where you came from. Indeed, I could ask Viarmo where to find my brethren if he were still alive. Tragically, the master of the Bard's College died in last night's attack. Taarie would have been a possibility, had the good tailor not broken her leg. Therion is many things, but easy to subdue, is not one. I required five men, invisible, with the element of surprise, while he was inebriated, and still had a difficult time of it myself. I am fascinated how you achieved it, truly."
Ondolemar dropped him, gasping for air and sat down at his desk, leaning back and folding his arms.
Melaran frowned thoughtfully and sighed.
"Blackreach. Beneath the ruins of Mzinchaleft," he muttered. "If you were anyone other than Head Justicar-"
"Of course. I know your oath to secrecy," Ondolemar replied smoothly. "But I have urgent information I must report, and you've done well by directing me. Now. How did you capture my cousin?"
Melaran smiled slyly.
"A daedric artifact; a dagger. I liberated it from my former employer, Erikur. The fool had no idea of its enchantment. When it penetrates the skin, it renders a man temporarily in a death like state. Useful for transporting someone. They have no need for food, water - barely even air."
"Hm. Still," Ondolemar said thoughtfully. "I trained Therion with a blade. He's not easy to stab."
"On the contrary. It was pitifully easy," Melaran said with a self satisfied smile at Ondolemar's surprised expression. "He's a romantic. In love. One kiss and a few words of affection disguised as the 'High Wizard' Secret-Fire..." Melaran laughed. "The look in his eyes!" he exclaimed.
He was still laughing when a blur of blue robes suddenly appeared before him, revealing Farengar, his expression making Melaran flinch. The mage had been invisible the entire time. And, he realized too late, it had only fallen off because the Nord was swinging a hard fist at his face. Melaran staggered back, stunned and dazed, clutching his jaw, as Farengar grabbed the front of his robes.
"He might be dead," Ondolemar pointed out, as Farengar paused for breath.
The Nord was drenched in sweat, blood covering his knuckles.
He peered up at Ondolemar, his breathing heavy.
"I only point it out," Ondolemar said politely. "Because he may have lied to me about Blackreach. In which case I would need to ask him again where they took Therion. And I don't know any necromancers in the vicinity."
Farengar unceremoniously dropped Melaran, and moved to stand at the window. Ondolemar picked him up and tied him to his chair, healing the unconscious mer to a stable condition.
"How did you follow me?" Ondolemar asked, glancing over at Farengar's back as he worked.
Farengar said nothing.
Ondolemar didn't press him, letting him cool down. He looked at Melaran's swollen face approvingly, though he envied Farengar for it.
"A detect life spell," Farengar said at length, glaring either through the window or at own his reflection, Ondolemar wasn't sure which. "I waited outside the house and followed you here."
"I didn't even notice you were in the room with us," Ondolemar said, duly impressed.
"Therion has been rubbing off on me."
Ondolemar couldn't conceal the sad frown on his face.
"How did you know I was confronting his abductor?"
Farengar finally turned around to look at him.
"I didn't. I thought you were behind it."
"Ah," Ondolemar said with a thoughtful nod. "At what point during the conversation did you realize I was pretending to be a traitor?"
"That," Farengar said, using a cloth to wipe the blood from his hands, "would imply I've ruled it out."
Ondolemar gave him an intrigued look, followed by a small smile.
"I think I like you, High Wizard," he said, pulling down his hood. "We should hurry. I wish I were still out there. Damn Tullius. I could have made sure Therion wasn't taken back to Alinor."
"With any luck," Farengar said, leading their way toward Balgruuf's chamber, "we can find him in Blackreach, before they have a chance to flee Skyrim. But the ruin is massive. And he may even already be bound for the Summerset Isle."
Ondolemar frowned and quickened his pace.
"Not if we find them first."
"If they escape Skyrim and reach your country, do you have a plan?" Farengar asked.
Ondolemar stopped short, and Farengar turned to face him.
Glancing around, he saw the hall was empty.
"I wouldn't need one, if that were the case," Ondolemar said quietly.
Farengar frowned, picking up something in his tone.
"Therion didn't tell you he was exiled from Alinor?"
"Not in so many words," Farengar said thoughtfully. "He said he was found guilty of attempted murder."
Ondolemar hesitated, reluctant to divulge what Therion had not.
"Altmer have a tradition, about our exiles. Our kind are long lived," he explained. "Exile is not lightly done. The sentence is a ceremony called Dagon Cyr, or Heart Rend. If Therion sets one foot in Alinor, his heart will stop beating. He'll die."
Ondolemar frowned, hands tightening into fists.
"But that's not what frightens me," he said, eyes darkening.
Beneath the bluish glow of numerous, loosely floating spores, two Thalmor climbed an ancient stone staircase. The First Emissary, dressed in the black robes of her office, lead a handsome mer dressed in resplendent, red robes.
"The Dragonborn, my Lord Ascendant," she said. With a respectful bow of her head, she indicated the unconscious Altmer bound at the center of the platform. A dagger of strange enchantment was buried to the hilt in his chest.
Quirking her brow, Elenwen looked up when her companion neither spoke nor moved.
His gold eyes stared unblinking at the Dragonborn.
"Thrynn..." he whispered in disbelief. A sinister smile crossed his face. "Welcome back, lover."